Page 25 of Anything (Mayberry University #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Please, no nightmares tonight.

I brush my teeth again, stalling. Maybe there’s mouthwash.

I fish under the sink. There. My teeth are spotless now.

What’s next? Clipping my nails? I close the drawer with a sigh.

Enough. Wash my face, go to bed, and deal with it.

If the nightmares come, they come. It’s nothing I haven’t endured before.

I hear Mia stride into the suite as I turn on the faucet. Her determined steps are a dead giveaway.

“ Mira , we need to talk.“ From behind, her resolute gaze catches mine in the mirror.

Uhh. I pat my face dry with a towel and twist around. “Sure … what’s up?”

“You’ve been doing this thing that drives me nuts.

I’ve been thinking, and it’s sort of like an inferiority complex?

It doesn’t make any sense to me because you have a good head on your shoulders.

” She motions along as if it will help me interpret.

“I mean, I know it’s not a ‘You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful’ kind of problem.

” She drops her hands. “What’s happening to me?

Sophie has me talking in song titles. Anyway, you’re one of the few girls I know who isn’t insecure about how you look or who you are, which is just mature and awesome of you. ”

Okay, that’s really nice, but this is clearly the sandwich method.

“So what’s with all the deferring?” She lifts her hands.

“You’re all ‘No, you pick the movie. No, you tell your story. No, you first in line. No, you choose the plan.’ You do know nice and kind aren’t the same thing, right?

You let Sophie walk all over you. You won’t take up space.

And, obviously, the whole general Levi thing. ”

Get me the condiments. It’s the sandwich method all right. “Whole general Levi thing?” I ask, and immediately regret my active listening.

“That guy is falling for you, and I know you’re here for it.

You wanted him day one, but you’re still holding him off like the Secret Service.

If you have a reason, I would get that, more than most, but I have a bad feeling you’re deferring again.

Qué te pasa ? Are you assuming he’s gonna move on?

Are you letting some other girl snatch him up?

Luckily, he’s picked exactly one to take a liking to, so that doesn’t seem like a huge risk, but seriously, Kit, cut it out! ”

When will she quit yelling at me? I’m paralyzed with the towel in my hand. I must have stepped back, because my spine is flush against the countertop.

“Am I making you mad? I’m not trying to make you mad. I just want you to think clearly. I want all the good things for you.”

What is this? What do I even say?

Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.

Tenderhearted. Okay.

“Mia, I’m trying to listen. This is a lot.”

“Here’s the thing—I love you. You’re sweeter than southern sweet tea, and you’re not even southern. I just want what’s good for you. Do you get me?”

“Uh, thank you?”

“Stop watching your life pass you by and go do something, ok? Kick Levi to the curb or make a move. Just, something.”

I’m not going to figure any of this out by standing here staring at her. I need to respond somehow, make this end. Maybe I can just look at it like an essay prompt. Analyze and summarize.

“So … you want me to be more assertive and take opportunities as they come?”

“There it is!”

Something kind and relevant to wrap it up. “I’ll think on that. Thanks for wanting to help me, Mia.” I sound like a robot.

“I love you.” With a hug, Mia rolls out.

I release my breath. I have no idea what to do with any of that, but at least it’s over.

Mia’s words follow me all week. Every time I defer.

Every time I’m anxious to soothe someone’s frustration.

Every time I do whatever it takes to make someone happy—is that niceness rather than kindness?

I had never considered before that those are different.

My usual reactions are sickeningly sweet to my ears now.

I hate every bit of Mia’s insight. I have enough to think about without adding this bombshell to my reality.

But also, I can’t ignore it. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who grovels and tries so hard.

I guess it’s just subtle enough that I didn’t know it was there.

I’m pretty confident and, when I do speak up, I say what I mean, but I don’t feel free to take up space, to change people’s plans, to cost them too much effort.

I don’t want to talk to God about this. Not this too. I still spend time with him in the mornings, still read my Bible, but I pray about anything else.

The night before I fly out for fall break, I perk up at a text from Levi.

Hey, friend. Up for a walk tonight?

Yes, yes! Be cool.

Sure. When?

Now?

“There’s something I want to ask you about,” he says a few minutes later.

Cue the dread. “Okay?” I squeak.

“Tell me more about ballet?”

My held breath tumbles out. That’s an okay topic.

“You lit up when you mentioned it. Why did you quit?” His stride has purpose tonight, like I see him around campus, in contrast with his usual lazy saunter when we walk together. I jog a step to keep up, and he slows to my pace.

“My dance school fell apart after my sophomore year, and it didn’t make sense to me at the time to find another one and reacclimate to their approach.

And I really hate tryouts. And I knew I wouldn’t be dancing after high school.

Plus, it’s really expensive, and my parents had already been paying for it for years.

” My arms hang heavy at my sides. Yes, I had reasons, but I regret it.

Levi frowns. “Did you dance at home? After you quit?”

“You keep saying ‘quit.’ It’s not like swimming, where it’s a feasible hobby forever.

But yes, around the house, just messing around.

I find myself dancing whenever I’m on a hardwood floor.

But nothing formal. I haven’t worn pointe or any dance shoes since.

” I shrug. “I got a job as a file clerk after that. I took hard classes. Life was busy and eventually I stopped overthinking it.”

His fingers fidget and drum. Where are his Tic Tacs? “Would you dance again? If you had a chance?”

The answer surprises me even more than the question. “Definitely. But I don’t know how that would ever happen.” A loss registers in my gut. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” I nearly push his arm but smother the impulse.

“Can you dance barefoot?”

“Technically yes, but I couldn’t do pirouettes or fouettés well, and they’re my favorite part.”

He looks to me for explanation.

“Sorry, turns.” Why am I apologizing? Mia would hate that. “I could manage in socks or sneakers. Why?”

His gaze dips to my sneakers. “What kind of shoes would you prefer to dance in?”

“Well, now that I’m out of that world, I wouldn’t want to destroy my feet again with pointe. I like lyrical shoes. They’re like the front half of a ballet slipper.” I chew on my lip. “Are you trying to out-Veronica Mars me?”

He tilts his head playfully the direction we’re walking. “Come with me?—“

“Levi?” I stop to face him as dissonance blares in my head. It’s rude to interrupt him. I’m messing up this mission he’s on. But I can’t manage whatever he has planned. I play with my fingers and try not to think about Mia.

“I don’t know what you have in mind,” I say, “but I’m not up for dancing right now. I’m sorry. I—I need a bit to wrap my head around it. And besides, I’m completely out of shape.”

His look says Yeah, right .

“I’d pull something if I just went and tried to dance again.” And I couldn’t bear to let him watch me all clunky and out of practice. But more than that, wherever we were going was probably going to be enclosed and alone. I don’t trust my mind to behave .

I rub my temple. The little lady pulling files in my brain is usually very accurate, but I wish she’d take a break sometimes—I don’t need to remember every relevant memory every single time.

I certainly don’t need Mia’s lecture bouncing around my head right now.

I hate this. And I hate that I hate it. And I hate that Mia was right about me.

Hands in his pockets, Levi studies me gently.

Mia would have a fit—she’d say I’m missing another opportunity. But the file clerk in my mind keeps flashing memories of every time I’ve freaked out and humiliated myself in front of Levi. I’m not budging on this.

But Mia might also tell me to stop stressing about turning him down. That he can handle it, that I’m allowed to take up space. Still, my stress isn’t going anywhere, and the file clerk flaunts a dozen examples of my overthinking.

Then again, Mia would probably say I shouldn’t be trying to please her in this random debate in my head. At that, the clerk throws up her papers in frustration.

“Sorry,” I finally say. How many sorrys move me from polite to groveling? “I hate to mess up your plan. You’re so sweet to care about this.” Say it’s okay. I stare at his sneakers. Don’t be mad. Or do. I don’t know!

Two knuckles brush my jaw and I jolt backward. My heart hammers and my mind swims in inky black.

Levi flinches. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

All I can manage is a wan smile as I about-face toward to my building. I’ve ruined his thoughtful idea and affectionate touch. May as well cut my losses and end the walk too.

He follows along silently.

Remember that scene in Hitch where Eva Mendes wakes up on her couch? Hitch is picking up coffee, but she doesn’t know and she lectures herself with numbered points into the pillow? As soon as I get to my room, that’ll be me.